


Hands of Gold

by wamblytomato



Category: Cultist Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: (you wouldnt be here if you didnt know that already), Bloodplay, F/F, I don't even know if I needed to tag that last one but just to be safe, I mean have you seen Keys? HAVE YOU SEEN ENID, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, blindfold, of course there's bloodplay in here what do you take me for, sorry these tags are so long it's just a short drabble but I have no shame, this still is shameless self-indulgence and I'm not even embarassed anymore at this point, you should know how it works by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 15:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wamblytomato/pseuds/wamblytomato
Summary: Calling this "a consent of wounds" would have been predictable.Enid and the Painter have some fun. Who am I to judge what people do for fun?





	Hands of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> "Blood, red and sweet,  
>  Spill in excess,  
>  Stick to our hands —  
>  And in its rush we both shall rest."
> 
> Back again. Well. I guess one could say this game is an endless inspiration.

Wherever my hands wished to roam she asked for me to press the needle instead; I traced her jaw, slid down her neck, I ran down the blue lines of her veins; I was mesmerised by her, enraptured, and the blood that tinged her skin was entrancing; the faint smell of copper had us both sigh.

She was blind — by choice, though the longing in her few words would have maybe suggested otherwise. It’s better this way, she had whispered, it’s better if I see you not. Her fingers would sometimes frantically grasp for my unblemished skin; I’d let her touch me and feel my flesh, whole as it was, and her tension would fade as quickly as it had come, and she’d smile the most fleeting, marvellous smile. I’d guide her hands to my lips and kiss them.

She loved me, yet she both loved and hated the wounds. As gifted a Key as she was, her lacerating vision had not been bestowed upon her by her choice. Sometimes she would look at me and frown. Sometimes she’d touch me to make sure the wounds she saw were not real, sometimes she’d wish they were so that she might push one finger inside and spread them wide open. She both hated and so, so loved to hurt me.

I knew her eyes often saw me torn and rent, and as her mind worried, I had to let her hands know that I was whole and safe with her — that I felt whole and safe with her. I could be lying bare, my insides exposed in front of her, and I’d feel whole and safe and grateful. She loved me.

If I was lucky then she’d take her blindfold off after I was done, trace the paths in her vision with the blade, turn me into the bloody design her mind had carved without need for a needle. It was painful; I loved it. I loved her.

I couldn’t help it — I paused, hungry, and ran my tongue up one of the gashes I’d just engraved. I growled. Her blood, her taste, it was intoxicating. She was _mine_.

Go on, she breathed; I breathlessly obeyed, because I, too, was hers.

Her shoulders, collarbones, the curve of her breasts; I did deviate from her instructions when it came to their peaks, though I doubt she minded as my lips dared to close around them — I smirked as I heard her gasp at my teeth grazing the sensitive skin. But she soon urged me to continue, again; I mutely acquiesced, and went back to wounding.

She was my blank canvas, her blood my ink and the needle my brush; I was going to make a masterpiece of her. I would not show my creation to my admirers, though; not this time. I would not show my creation to anyone else — she’d be _Mine_ , mine alone. I looked at her and she was beautiful, naked and vulnerable, exposed, ecstatic at the sweet pain following in my fingers’ wake — no one but me would be allowed to admire her perfection.

Still the sharp razor carved a path down her figure, not unlike a chisel hewing marble — though I have never seen a statue capture beauty as her body did. I punctured her left hip and her fingers twitched around my shoulder, her breath trembling. I could see she was ready, glistening for me; I’d drink her dry. She was a well sunk to satisfy my parched throat; I wouldn’t let a single ruby drop go to waste. Then I’d rest between her legs and feast, until her whole body tensed and her obstinately sealed lips would finally yield to crying out my name; I’d lie down, sated, ready to pass the scalpel on to her if she so wished, in the spiral of pleasure of a consent of wounds.

**Author's Note:**

> I might still be sorry about this. I might still not care that much. Now go fetch me that frangiclave, I have a job to do.


End file.
